The Double Life of Irma Pince
by Daisy Pennifold
Summary: In which Irma Pince revisits her dark and glorious past, and the women within her struggle for dominance. DISCONTINUED
1. Chapter One

I am a librarian. I work with teenagers primarily. I _love_ my job. I hate the way Irma Pince is portrayed in the books - most librarians aren't like that! I wanted to find out more about her. Hence this little tale. Please enjoy.

Disclaimer: Characters, settings, etc. are not my invention. I am not attempting to pass my work off as Ms. Rowling's in any way.

CHAPTER ONE  
  
Irma Pince brushed the chocolate from her hands and sighed. Would these filthy children never learn the basic rules of the library? Certainly she didn't expect much from the Weasley girl, with six barbaric brothers to influence her, but Potter should certainly know better, as a friend of Hermione Granger. She tapped the sign on the door of her library with her wand, and the letters swirled and morphed from "OPEN" to read "CLOSED". She sat at her desk and buried her thin face in her hands. Another horrible day over.

"If only Evan were here," she thought, and stopped. Evan Rosier had been her husband for ten short years before his allegiance to Voldemort had proved fatal. If Evan _were _here, she would be hosting parties for other influential wizarding families and fawning over her own children, rather than babysitting other people's brats all day. They had always planned on two, but her dreams for a family had died with Evan. If Evan were here, she would be Alma Rosier, lovely, wealthy, admired – and a little feared.   
  
As Irma Pince, she was certainly a little feared, or at least, respected – the same students that mocked Trelawney never mocked her, not to her face. She had been beautiful once, but years of anger, grief and loneliness had transformed her into the sharp, fanatical librarian-type the students saw. Dumbledore had been...kind, is the word...to take her on after Evan's death. The Ministry had seized all of their assets – the house, everything – claiming they had been "pirated from innocent wizarding families by violent and aggressive means". The Rosiers had lived in that house for 600 years, and Evan had been hard pressed to spend all of the money his ancestors had left him. He had no need to steal from anyone. Everyone knew this, but nearly everyone had turned away from the Rosiers once his activities became common knowledge. No one would support Alma with the taint of Voldemort on her robes.   
  
For a while, she had stayed with the Lestranges; she and Rodolphus were distant cousins. When the Lestranges were captured, however, she had nowhere, no one, but Dumbledore offered her the position at Hogwarts, knowing her love of study and order from her school days. She had never been accused of Death Eater activities herself, but marriage to Evan was enough to condemn her to staff and parents alike. At her own insistence, she had changed her name and appearance enough to maintain anonymity – she rarely even felt like Alma Rosier anymore...until Bellatrix Lestrange broke out of Azkaban.   
  
Bellatrix made a person feel as if everything was easy, and anything was possible. Alma was sure Azkaban hadn't changed her too much, though they had not been in contact. Bella had always been filled with a restless, maniacal energy, and was as passionate in her love as in her hatred. She never forgot, and never forgave. Her intensity was what Alma most admired about her. They had always been friends, and although Alma was several years older, she deferred to Bellatrix in everything. Before her imprisonment, Bellatrix had been plotting Evan's revenge – she had tortured the Longbottoms in part in an attempt to draw Moody into open combat, but was captured before he arrived, to her great disgust. Alma remembered this, and knew Bella would have used her time in Azkaban well....   
  
Irma jumped as a light hand rested on her shoulder. "Sorry, Irma," said Minerva McGonagall, low and urgent. "Dumbledore would like a word with you, if you aren't afraid of jeopardizing your position here."   
  
Irma bristled. Umbridge's purges were, of course, causing all of the staff members to live on edge, but Minerva should know of her loyalty to the Headmaster. "I have little love for the Ministry or its rules. You know that well."   
  
More loudly, McGonagall said, "I would like a break from the castle for a few hours tonight. So much stress. Will you join me, Irma? I fancy a walk to Hogsmeade."   
  
The two women strolled conspicuously through the castle corridors and out the front door, chatting lightly, thankful nonetheless that Dolores Umbridge, self-styled Headmistress, was currently ridding the North Tower of leftover fireworks. "Well, the Weasleys aren't _all_ bad," Irma thought, with a faint smile reaching her thin lips, as the doors shut behind them. Only the lamplike eyes of Mrs. Norris gleamed in the dimly-lit entrance hall, watching the witches stroll into the night.


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO   
  
The Three Broomsticks was crowded and cheerfully noisy as they entered. Many of the locals seemed to be chasing the chilly spring air away with a warm butterbeer. Rosmerta raised a hand in greeting while serving a group of young warlocks, who were eyeing her appreciatively. Out of the corner of her eye, Irma spotted a couple of Hogwarts students duck beneath a table at the sight of Minerva and herself, but Irma didn't bother to point them out to her companion. She didn't care.   
  
Minerva led the way to a secluded corner booth with a curtain, and Rosmerta appeared almost as soon as they had seated themselves, having stopped the young warlocks' advances with a few very well-aimed hexes. "They'll grow back in a couple of hours," she mumbled guiltily to herself, and smiled at the two witches in front of her. "What'll it be, ladies?"   
  
"Two D.A. Specials, Rosmerta, and pull the curtain after you bring them. Anyone I should know about?"   
  
"Everyone in here now is a regular, Minerva. Not that _that_ means much anymore." Rosmerta sailed off to get their drinks, and Irma stretched her mouth into a sardonic grin.   
  
"D.A. Specials," she murmured musingly. "I don't seem to remember those from the menu, Minerva."   
  
"Don't take off your cloak just yet. It may get a little chilly. The drink is quite a whirlwind."   
  
A minute later Rosmerta brought the drinks, and pulled the curtain shut on the bustling pub. "Good evening, girls, don't worry about the tab, hey, Minerva?"   
  
Irma looked across the table at her colleague. The drinks sitting in front of each of them shimmered, their pale pink hue deepening to rose, shifting to violet, indigo, chocolate, and pale green in a swirling mix of colors. A pale vapor drifted from the surface. The drinks in their heavily carved silver flagons reminded Irma of the Pensieve she had seen once in Dumbledore's office.   
  
"Well, drink up, Irma. Best to do it at the same time." Minerva tilted the flagon to her lips, and Irma hastened to do the same, shutting her eyes tightly.   
  
It was an odd sensation. The drink pulled and twisted the two witches in what seemed a million directions at once. Irma felt alternately hot and cold, stretched and shrunken, squeezed and inflated. After a few seconds of this, she felt herself settle firmly into a seated position again, but when she opened her eyes it was not Minerva's angular figure across a table in a crowded pub that she was looking at, but the solemn face of Albus Dumbledore.   
  
They seemed to be in a private sitting room in one of the pubs, but which one Irma couldn't say. Minerva was seated next to her on a lumpy green sofa, Dumbledore in a cushioned chintz armchair of his own design. In the dim light emanating from the mumbling fire, she could make out terrifically tacky velvet artwork on the wood-paneled walls. Two great sorcerers from the 1970's, Elvis Presley and Andy Kaufman, were posing their best and pretending that the fabric-bound light shows erupting from the ends of their wands was magic as real as when they were alive. Irma could hear the clinking of glasses and muffled speech through the walls.   
  
Dumbledore looked about a thousand years old, Irma thought. All this trouble to save that damn Potter kid from the Ministry. She probably would have let Umbridge have a crack at him – after all, the Ministry wouldn't actually hurt the boy, and he would be sent back to his uncle's house, out of harm's way. Dumbledore sighed almost imperceptibly before speaking again. He looked solemnly through his half-moon glasses at the pair, all trace of his trademark twinkle absent from his eyes.   
  
"I risked you coming here tonight, Madam Pince, because of certain associates you have from the past. I believe you know to whom I refer." Alma nodded grimly. She wondered where the Lestranges were at that moment.   
  
"It has been over three months since the mass breakout at Azkaban, and we have had no sign of any of the Death Eaters. However, I believe that they will soon attempt to resume old ties. I am asking you to go along with any instructions or requests you may receive, to the furthest extent of your nature, and find out what you can. You will be protected as best we are able. Specifically, I have planted a rumor within a select circle of the Ministry, and if Voldemort has heard of it, I will be forced to act against the Minister."   
  
"What is this rumor?"  
  
"That I will not tell you; if you are found to have previous knowledge of this information, it may be perilous for you. Suffice it to say that if Voldemort's inner circle has heard it, the 'knowledge' will excite them immeasurably. You will hear of it – of that I am sure."   
  
Minerva fidgeted abruptly, then rose and passed to the opposite side of the room as Dumbledore and Irma discussed the situation at the school. The noise from the bar got louder as Minerva opened the door, slid into her feline form, and exited. Dumbledore waved his hand gently and the door clicked shut behind her. A minute later, a soft scratching at the bottom of the door caused the wizard to wave his hand again, an almost invisible movement, and Minerva returned, her cat-eyes reflecting the low fire for a split second before she resumed her human form.   
  
"He's coming."  
  
As she sat down, a grumpy-looking older man, with a passing resemblance to Dumbledore, stumped softly into the room. Irma recognized the drinks he carried on a dirty tray, and immediately began to don her cloak. Minerva did the same, and after bidding farewell to Dumbledore, they each took a drink from the bartender, who left the room just as Irma began to sip her drink. 


	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER 3

The next few days were busy ones. The library was constantly full of older students preparing for exams, and Madam Pince felt at her wit's end. In past years she had enjoyed the work, the challenge of helping the students research obscure spells, the look of enlightenment that is born when a difficult problem is solved. This year, however, the fragile façade of her Irma Pince character was crumbling more and more often.

She wasn't sure why she was losing control of things so rapidly. When the Death Eaters had escaped Azkaban prison earlier in the year, memories of Evan had flooded through her mind, when for fifteen long years they had remained frozen and forgotten. She had experienced sporadic relapses of memory since New Year's Day, but the meeting with Dumbledore on the previous Sunday seemed to have reintroduced Alma Rosier to herself – permanently. Irma Pince was nearly gone.

Alma first realized the change in herself the day after the meeting. That Monday, the Lovegood girl, a decidedly odd Fourth Year Ravenclaw, had asked for Madam Pince's help, and Alma Rosier had responded.

"You're Madam Pince."

"So I'm told." Her dry, drawling tone, so different from her usual quick, crisp reply, caused Lovegood's fair eyebrows to disappear behind her scraggly blonde bangs.

"I am creating an extremely important research project for Care of Magical Creatures. I plan to document the life cycle and habits of the Vermicious Knid. I am hoping to find some information – perhaps in the Restricted Section? Professor Hagrid has given me permission." She handed the librarian a grubby note with a distinct polecat aroma.

"You should have asked Hagrid for permission to return to outer space and study them firsthand. Or are you just waiting for your Earth visa to expire?"

Luna's eyes seemed to protrude even farther, if that was possible. She regarded Madam Pince in silence for a moment or two. "That would be very helpful, if I could spare the time. I was actually looking for a certain title, _Violent Tendencies of Celestial Super Beings_, by Landa Starship."

"You'd have better luck with _Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator_, but you seem to know what you want. Here's the Starship book." Lovegood didn't seem to mind that the book came not from the Restricted Section, but from the comic book section.

"No, thank you, this title has all of the information I'll need."

"Lovely. Now you can go enlighten your housemates with 'facts' about Vermicious Knids. Good day, Miss Lovegood."

Madam Pince would never have openly insulted, used sarcasm with, or summarily dismissed a student. Looking back on the exchange, she was grateful it was Lovegood, and not a more grounded student. Alma Rosier couldn't help but take the bait, especially when so freely offered.

In her quarters that evening, the normally staid librarian was pacing frantically. She felt like a lion trapped in a muggle zoo. Unlike the lion, however, Alma Rosier did have an opportunity for escape. A few minutes earlier, a very scraggly, thin Tawny Owl had landed on her windowsill with a message, scribbled on part of a Daily Prophet advertisement page. The owl had looked at her pro-offered treat with utter disdain, and after sipping some water from her washbasin, slipped silently from her chamber into the deep of night.

The message was brief, and scribbled in a bold, rough hand, but the power behind the words was unmistakable:

_THE TIME HAS COME TO EXACT PAYMENT FOR THE LIFE OF YOUR HUSBAND. AWAIT A PORTKEY._

Alma was pacing as the loyalties within her struggled for dominance. Should she tell Dumbledore about the message, or find out for herself what was expected of her? She owed a lot to Dumbledore, but...Bella had her claims, too.

The decision was made for her a few days later, as she was shelving a cart of books after hours. As she picked up the last one, she had only time to glance at the title, _Ingenious Portkeys of Ancient Times_, when she felt a tug behind her navel. A moment later, she dropped the book and began dusting her dress, to gain a little time for self-composure before meeting the eyes of her cousin.

Bellatrix Lestrange's beauty had not so much faded as been wrenched from her after a hard struggle. Her eyes, which had once been mocking, teasing, alluring, had grown huge in her now thin face. The mockery was still there, but all allure had been replaced with a fanatical, crazy gleam. Her eyebrows were ragged and thick, as was her deep black hair. It had been pulled back from her face, but short electric strands stuck out all over. Her robes were once a deep russet-colored velvet, but so dirty and ragged that it was difficult to see their original grandeur.

"Alma, darling. The years have been much more kind to you than to me. I hope I didn't detain you from any pressing business?"

The two women were in what appeared to be a small shack on a rocky promontory. Woodlands were visible in the distance. Alma could smell the sea on a breeze coming through a broken window in the room, but a fire blazed so strongly in the grate she didn't notice a chill. Bellatrix reclined before the fire on a battered chaise lounge, ever regal in her bearing. Alma was reminded forcibly of her recent meeting with Dumbledore, and wondered if Bellatrix would appreciate the chintz armchair he had so comfortably occupied. She thought not.

"No, Bella, of course not. I could have no business more pressing than seeing you once again, after learning of your...liberation and then receiving a message from you. Time has crawled for me." At her hostess's bidding, Alma gracefully seated herself in a small ladder-back chair opposite the chaise.

"I've had nothing but time, Alma. Time to think of all of the transgressions that have been wrought against me. Against my family. Against all honourable pureblooded families. Why are we forced to concede to the misguided beliefs of the ignorant masses? Why are we punished for holding dear to us the tenets that shaped our ancestors? Why are _we_ in the wrong? All of this I have mulled for fourteen long years, and I have concluded that I must keep faith, in my ancestors, and in my master and in his quest for purity, perfection, and revenge against those who would oppose us."

Alma shook her head in quiet disbelief and grudging admiration. Fourteen years of torture and deprivation the likes of which she could hardly imagine, and Bellatrix wasted no time for recuperation. Revenge and revenge alone would heal this maniacal woman of the ills Azkaban had wrought.

"And what is required of me, Bella?"

"You know the aurors that killed Evan. You know whom they now protect. You are admirably placed to not only exact revenge for that atrocity, but to lay the groundwork for a plot that will destroy all of Dumbledore's work. With your assistance, we can regain our former glory and my lord will make our enemies pay!"

"So you want me to...kill the Potter boy?"

Bella's laugh was brief and bitter. "No, darling. That is an honour reserved for my lord. However, Dumbledore's wards at the castle make matters...difficult. If Potter were out of the castle, the boy would be easily dealt with."

Not wishing to antagonize Bellatrix with a recap of last year's Triwizard Tournament, when Potter had last met Voldemort out of the castle, Alma merely nodded.

"I'll let you get back to your school darling. All you need know of our plans right now is that Potter will be lured from the school. When I am reunited with my lord, I will have more details for you. I thought it safer to see you first, to see what you have become, before I mention your name to Him."

"Is there anything I can do for you Bella? Food, Clothes...?"

"No. I have the assistance of one of your colleagues, and soon I will be reunited with my lord and he will provide me with all that I require. You will have your part to play, darling, and you will be rewarded for your service and be in a small way recompensed for the loss of Evan."

Alma picked up the book once again, and was summarily returned to her library. She had a lot to think about, and left immediately for her chambers, unaware that someone had noticed her sudden arrival.


	4. Chapter Four

_A/N: I found this in my folder, so I thought I'd post it, because I love my Draco. He's such a little bitch. I'm not writing any more of this story, but since it's already written, I'm posting this (incomplete) chapter. As is._

"Madam Pince?"

Alma rolled her eyes at the simpering voice, but composed herself as she rose gracefully from the floor, where she had been weeding books from the bottom shelf of a section on Divination. It was Madam Pince who greeted Dolores Umbridge, with only the slightest hint of asperity in her crisp, clipped voice.

"Yes, Professor Umbridge?"

"As you know, I have been observing the teachers at Hogwarts, this past term. Now," she peered through a pair of tiny pince-nez at an official looking scroll, "I have time to get to know the staff. Hmm, let's see…you don't actually _do_ anything, is that right? I mean to say, you don't teach?"

"No Professor, I do not teach, but I manage a library of some 10,000 volumes for several hundred students, unaided, for twelve hours a day, seven days a week. I am hardly idle."

"Yes, well…. How long have you been…um…assisting students, at Hogwarts?"

"Fourteen years," Alma replied. She was struggling to remain in character, but Umbridge antagonized her to a high degree. To gain time for composure, she returned to the floor and her books.

Professor Umbridge jotted Irma's response on her clipboard. She peered down into the librarian's thin face and said, "And before that?"

"Your pardon?"

"What did you do before you came to Hogwarts, dear? I can find no record of an 'Irma Pince' having attended any of the accredited wizarding schools, or even in Ministry birth or marriage records. In fact, Madam, I can't seem to find a trace of you _anywhere_ before you began your work in this library. Do you care to explain?"

"No, not really."

"Very well, then." Umbridge started scribbling very quickly on her clipboard. Alma thought she heard the word 'belligerent' interspersed with her mutterings, but couldn't be sure.

"Now. When did you last speak to Dumbledore?"

If Irma was surprised, Alma wouldn't let her show it. She pretended to think for a moment. "I don't recall. Perhaps a week before his…departure?"

"Do you care to explain where you were on the two occasions this past week when you left the castle?"

"_Two_ occasions?"

"Yes, Dear. About a week ago you left the castle with Minerva McGonagall, and just last night you were seen – reappearing? – In this very room. I assume you left the castle then, although I am not sure how you managed it."

"I didn't realize that it was unlawful for a grown woman to come and go as she pleases. Apparently, I was mistaken," Irma replied, shoving _Behind the Bite Marks: Deciphering Death Omens in Common Snack Foods_ onto the shelf with more force than was necessary.

"Oh, no, of course it isn't! I merely thought that if you _had_ seen Professor Dumbledore, you would tell me," Umbridge patted Irma's arm in what she clearly thought was a confiding, conspiratorial manner.

If there was _anything_ Alma Rosier could not stand, it was to be touched by a person she did not like. She jerked her arm away from Umbridge conspicuously, and closed the interview in an imperious manner Irma Pince had never possessed.

"If there is one thing I have learned in this lifetime, Professor Umbridge, it is that I _never_ talk about that which does not concern me personally. Good day." With that she rose and walked away, leaving Umbridge scribbling furiously in her wake.

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"Lady Rosier, may I have a word?"

Although usually elegant in all her movements, the manner in which Alma's head snapped up at the address was anything but graceful. She was working on repairing the rather tricky binding on the library's copy of _A Monster Book of Monsters_ and was caught off guard being addressed by a name no one here should be able to associate with her.

She closed her eyes for a moment to recover, and finally was able to speak coherently. She looked up and her eyes met a pair of steely grey ones that were carbon copies of those belonging to his father.

"You seem to have forgotten my name, Master Malfoy. Perhaps I should make you write 'Madam Pince' a few thousand times to aid your memory."

Draco seated himself in a small armchair near her desk, crossing his legs in a single fluid movement. His eyes glittered a moment before he replied, suavely, "I meant no disrespect, Madam. You will permit me?" At her nod, he placed a silencing charm around the two of them before continuing, "Thank you. As I was saying, my dear Aunt Bella asked me to contact you. Am I wrong in assuming you would like to hear her message?"

Alma laughed to herself. He was just as arrogant and self-assured as Lucius. So like his father.

Poor boy.

"_You_ are Bella's liaison?" Alma's low drawl rose a bit in amusement. "Don't you think you're in over your head a bit?"

Draco's face stiffened, and his eyes lost the 'innocent student' look that he had perfected using on teachers. "That's really none of your concern, Madam. Here is the message." With that, he looked around, checked his silencing charm, and pointed his want at his throat.

"_SE REDDERE_."

Suddenly, Bellatrix's harsh, strong voice emanated from Draco Malfoy's pale, pointed face. It was a severely odd effect.

"…..


End file.
